Every surface is an archive. A cracked wall holds decades of weather and slow collapse. A carved door accumulates the touch of many hands. Stone darkened by age carries not only geological time but the residue of those who have passed before it.

This series layers three kinds of time: the geological, the architectural, and the human. Onto facades and worn materials I place fragments from another archive — museum floors, shadows, the faint passage of visitors moving through spaces dedicated to preservation. The figures that emerge are deliberately unstable: present enough to be felt, but not fully recoverable.

The resulting works belong to no single place or moment. A wall becomes less a boundary than a skin. A door becomes a threshold between the visible and the remembered. Patina here is not surface decoration but accumulation — the slow gathering of weather, touch, erosion, and attention.

What remains when place, material, and memory are compressed into a single image? These works are concerned with the persistence of surfaces, but also with their vulnerability: how they absorb history, conceal it, and sometimes briefly allow it to reappear.